Or Something
by simply woven
Summary: Kerry, Abby, and a different version of season 8
1. Chapter 1

This story takes place in the middle of the eighth season. You can probably figure it out yourself from there. Just an FYI, I'm starting preseason training for hockey tomorrow morning, and next week i start school, so updates for this story as well as my other, _And Baby Makes Four_, may be few and far between.

* * *

"Abby?" Her voice cuts through the consistent hum of nightlife in Cook County, Chicago. In doing that, it also cuts through my stream of thought.

I don't acknowledge her, or at least I don't show that I know she's there, and take another long drag of my cigarette. I wait for her to come to me. I wait to see if she does come to me, rather.

She does.

She leans up against the brick wall next to me and stares out into the same, dark space as I am. She doesn't say anything for a while, and I'm surprised she's yet to reprimand me for running out in the midst of a trauma. I wouldn't have minded if she did, I don't think. Maybe the burning flush I'd experience would elicit a sense of connectivity, a sense of feeling.

When she does speak, her tone isn't angry or upset or annoyed or Weaver-ish at all. Her voice is soft and calm and she sounds exactly the way she does when she treats a child. Normally that, being spoken to like a child, would piss me off. But strangely enough, it's calming. Calm is a feeling, right?

Just as I wasn't expecting her to be cool and collected, I didn't expect to hear the words that came out of her mouth, well, come out of her mouth. "Are you alright, Abby?"

I take another drag of my cigarette and exhale the smoke in the opposite direction of my company. I turn and face her light eyes. I study her face for a long while; the way the moonlight makes her pale skin even paler, how it brings out the blue undertones in her predominantly green eyes, the way the wind pushes and pulls at the few strands of red hair that frames her delicate face. I swallow. "I'm fine, Dr. Weaver."

She nods shortly, clasping her hands together in front of her. I can't tell if she's going to keep going, keep speaking, until she does. "Why did you walk out of that trauma?" Her tone's still even and calm. I sense no trace of anger.

I shrug, concealing the small amount of my own anger that's bubbling deep down inside of me. I don't know, Dr. Weaver, maybe it was the fact that I erupted on the patient, an abusive father who finally got what he deserved with a good, hardy ass-kicking who suddenly wanted to know where his son, who had eleven stitches across his face to match his darkening black eye, was.

I don't vocalize my answer.

"We can't let patients get the best of us, Abby." She's perceptive. Or maybe I'm not as obscure and opaque as I sometimes let myself think. Not that being opaque is a good thing…it's just convenient, from time to time. And I've heard some people find the whole 'dark and brooding' thing attractive. I'd like to meet that person sometime, because lately, all I've heard is that my emotional baggage is basically enough to fill an entire plane. In more words or less, of course.

I turn and face her again. I feel as if I should have some sort of witty, sardonic, smart ass remark. I don't and that makes me feel naked. Naked in front of Kerry Weaver. That's like weaponless in front of a slew of warmongers. At least that's how it would be if the woman would raise her voice, get angry. But she hasn't and it's not looking as if she will. So I guess I'm a little less naked. Scantily clad, maybe.

I take one more drag of my cigarette and her bright eyes are still set on me. I can't tell if she's concerned or curious or both or neither, but I meet her gaze until my lungs need release. I push out one more stream of smoke and look back into her eyes, ready to talk. "He was an asshole."

This elicits a barely audible chuckle. It's more like a strange intake of breath, than anything. But the smirk on her face makes it clear that it was, in fact, a form of laughter. My face must be screwed up into some scrutinizing form because she goes on to explain her reaction. "Aren't they all?"

It's a rhetorical question so I nod in understanding rather than agreement. Although I do agree. I agree very much so.

Half of me is still expecting a lecture or reprimand of some kind, but I'm beginning to shiver through my thin scrubs so I push up my sleeve to check my watch. Before I can get a clear look at the time, she speaks again. "Your shift ended ten minutes ago."

I look at her suspiciously then nod. It's better than having another five hours to go, I suppose. Though it's not as if I have something in particular to go home to; my abusive neighbor is gone, so that checks the whole getting knocked out thing off my list of things I could do on a Friday night. I could go out, of course…hit up a bar, play some pool…but the more rational side of me knows that drinking alone is just another reminder that hey, I'm a goddamn alcoholic. My face must be screwed up again because she clears her throat in an obvious manner and, when I refocus my attention to someone besides myself, I see that her head is cocked to the side. "Is everything alright, Abby?"

A light bulb goes off in my head. A crazy light bulb, one that might just enforce my madness, but it's a light bulb nonetheless. I speak before I really think it all through. "Do you want to get dinner or something?"

Green eyes narrow in my direction and she opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. She closes her jaw for a second I stand there, waiting, beginning to wish I hadn't mentioned anything because then she wouldn't have to turn me down. I'm about to answer for her, about to retract my answer, when she speaks. "I get off in twenty."

I guess that's a yes. I nod. "I'll wait."

The left corner of her mouth turns up in the smallest smile and she nods, pushing herself off the wall, and heads back to the doors of the ER. She stops halfway and looks over her shoulder. "You should put a jacket on."

I tilt my chin up slightly but ignore her suggestion.

She only smirks a little more and keeps going into the ER.


	2. Chapter 2

**Please, R&R. **

I'm surprised when, at seven thirty on the dot, the lounge door swings open and Kerry emerges, looking no more tired or worn out than she did when I last saw her out in the ambulance bay. She still looks completely wiped out, though.

I had been sitting in the dark when she entered and it seems as if she's not going to bother turning the lights on, either; she heads straight for her locker, shimmying out of her lab coat as she does. I watch as nimble fingers twist at the combination lock, as she retracts her arm from the cuff of her crutch and leans it against Carter's closed locker door. My eyes are set on her as she exchanges the white coat for her much thicker winter one and swaps her stethoscope for her leather bag.

She doesn't know I'm here.

As she does the top buttons of her coat, I clear my throat just loud enough to, with any luck, get the doctor's attention. I do. A gasp-like noise escapes from her throat and she stumbles slightly, bracing her left hand against the lockers. Wide-eyed, she looks straight at me.

I'm not sure if I should laugh or apologize. So, I do both. Compromise is always a good solution. "Um…sorry." I manage, my voice breathy with a shadow of amusement.

Her breathing, apparently, has returned to normal and I can safely assume her heart rate has returned to normal. "Good God, Abby…" she lets out a shaky laugh as she threads her arm through her crutch, "I didn't think you'd be in here."

I raise my eyebrow though I know she can't see it. "Where else would I be?"

I can see her shrug, the moonlight shining in from the window making her a silhouette. A bulky one, due to that horrendous coat, but a silhouette all the same. "Home…" she says slowly, quietly, and dare I say vulnerably.

I shake my head. She thought I was going to bail on her. And I can tell, from her tone of voice, she was hoping I wouldn't. "I'm still up for going out if you are…" I offer, leaving it up to her to decide.

Even through the dark I can see the corners of her mouth turn upwards in a smile. "Lead the way."

I push myself off of the couch and grab my coat and bag off of the table in front of me. I realize, looking down as I put my jacket on, I wore scrubs to work today and, therefore, that's what I'll be wearing home. Rather, that's what I'll be going out to wherever it is we're going in.

As if she had insight to my thoughts, Kerry speaks. "Did you take the El this morning?"

I nod.

"Want me to drive?"

I nod. "Mind if we stop by my place first?" I ask, glancing down at my outfit.

Her eyes follow mine and why I'm asking must register in her mind because she agrees. "No problem…"

We head to the parking garage and ride the elevator up to the top level in silence. I find it ironic that her car is parked in a designated handicapped spot, yet it's on the sixth level. What if the elevator was broken? How much sense would that really make? I shrug to myself, nudging the aimless thought to the back of my mind.

Kerry Weaver's car is not the type of car I'd expect Kerry Weaver to drive. It's a beige Honda sedan and not nearly as tidy or well-kept as I'd imagine Kerry Weaver's car to be. For some reason or another, I expected she'd be the type to splurge just a bit on her car. I don't know why I thought that, though, because she obviously hasn't.

There are CD cases scattered across both the passenger seat and the floor in front of it and I wait until she gathers them up in her hands. As she does, I take note of Melissa Etheridge's 'Skin' and try to conceal my smirk; she really is a lesbian, apparently. Though I didn't need to see her CD collection to guess that: that kiss in the ER…there was no way that was random on that Lopez woman's part. Kerry had seen those lips before. In more than one way, I'm sure…

I'm snap out of my almost-explicit thoughts when she throws the car into reverse and backs out of her spot. As she drives I pull my seat belt on. I sit silently, and when she asks me for directions, I rattle them off quickly: it's really a simple drive, and I trust she'll have no problem remembering it's just a couple of lefts then a right. She nods and does as I say. More silence until she reaches out with her right hand and switches on the radio. Some talk show comes on, NPR or something similar that has the ability to bore me to tears, but she quickly changes it over to CD and something I can actually appreciate comes on. My eyes widen in question and I turn to her slightly.

Who would have thought Kerry Weaver liked U2.

Again, she must be able to hear my thoughts. "After nearly a year of living with John his taste rubbed off...only a little bit, though." She chuckles as she takes the first of a handful of lefts. "I still find the Beastie Boys absolutely ridiculous."

Her tone is light and humorous and I laugh. I don't quite know what Carter sees in them, either. I pick up the conversation, sparing either of us from the strained silence that stood even with Bono rocking out in the background. "Did you really live under the same roof as him for an entire year?" I ask.

She chuckles again, taking another left. "About ten months, I guess."

I'm shocked. From the way Carter had talked about it before, it seemed as if she'd only been his landlady for a short while, maybe five or six months. I don't know how she did it that long; Carter is far too high maintenance. I turn the situation around and begin wondering what it'd be like to live under Weaver's roof…I bet the initial awkwardness that there always is after moving to a new apartment lasted far longer than a couple  
weeks.

It's silent again and she takes the last of the lefts, then the right, and soon, we're in front of my building. I begin to open the door and turn to speak over my shoulder. "I'll just be a second…" I say, knowing very well that, no matter how cluttered the front seat might be, she would not appreciate the mess that is my apartment. Besides, I'm only changing my clothes.

I take the front steps two at a time and yank open the door. Halfway up the next flight of stairs I remember that I've yet to get the mail. I ignore it, making a mental note to pick it up later.

As I strip off my pants and top, I'm left standing nearly naked with no idea what to wear. I don't even know where we're going. She's driving, so it's up to her…but then again, I'm the one who invited her.

Shit.

I decide to dress according to her. Kerry's wearing tailored charcoal pants and a black n-neck sweater. That'd be dressing up for me, so I throw on the dark jeans I wore yesterday and a black, long sleeved tee shirt.

I'm back in the car no more than ten minutes after I'd exited it.

Kerry starts driving before she asks me where to. I shrug. "Any ideas?"

She nods, takes a side street, and ten minutes later, we're outside of a pub called Miller's. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed when I find out it's nothing but a heterosexual filled burger joint. I think part of me wishes she'd bring me to her stomping grounds, but I know another part of me knows she'd never, ever do that. It's not like this is a date…

We snag seats quickly. They're at a raised table in the corner and, when the waitress asks us what we want to drink, Kerry's quick to order a vodka tonic and, when the waitress turns to me, I'm just as quick to order a rum and coke.

Cut me a break, I'm drinking with Kerry fucking Weaver, it's not like I'm going to get drunk or anything.

Our drinks arrive just as my stomach lets out a wild growl. I guess Kerry heard because her lips quirk upwards even as she orders a burger. I order the same and the waitress takes our menus under her arm, sticking her pencil back behind her ear.

It's quiet between the two of us for a short few moments as we sip at our drinks. I'm scanning the crowds when she suddenly starts coughing. Not a 'hey, pay attention to me' cough; an honest to god cough. I think my face looks pretty alarmed because she waves me off with her left hand.

Now she's laughing and coughing but, slowly, she starts to just laugh.

I quirk an eyebrow. "You okay?"

She nods, still laughing. "Wrong pipe…" she manages, her voice croaky.

That makes me laugh and she takes a sip of her drink. She swallows and looks relived. A smile spreads across her face when she places her glass back on the table. "Sorry…"

I don't know why she's apologizing but I forgive her.

She speaks again. "When did you move back in to your apartment?"

I count the days. Well today's Friday... "About three days ago."

She nods. "Your neighbor Westlake, is he gone?"

I nod, taking a swig of my rum and coke.

She mimics my movement. "That's good."

I'm hoping the liquor that's slowly entering our systems loosens us both up; if this is going to be the extent of our conversation, it's going to be a long evening.

I start fiddling with the corner of the square paper napkin in front of me, my eyes studying it intently, when Kerry speaks. Again. "Is this awkward?" She asks, her voice level.

My fingers stop and I look up at her slowly. I wouldn't call this awkward… I shrug, shaking my head a little bit. "Why would it be?"

She huffs a laugh. "Well, I'm your boss…"

I roll my eyes.

"…we rarely talk anyway…"

She has a point there.

"and I'm…uh…gosh." She's suddenly flustered. I can see streaks of red making their way up her neck and I know it's not just from the alcohol she's consumed thus far. "Well, I'm gay…and…I mean, if someone from work…."

I roll my eyes and laugh loudly.

Green eyes narrow into a hard, icy glare.

"Dr. Weaver, I didn't invite you out as a date…" I reply, "besides, who cares if someone from County sees us? The rumor mill round there will pick up if you accidentally walk into someone, for Christ's sake."

She looks more at ease and nods, smiling in agreement. "Well as long as you're comfortable…"

I nod.

"And Abby? Call me Kerry."

Her smile when she says that is like no other I've seen on her face. It's soft and friendly, but not as if she was speaking kindly to a patient. There's a mature sense now…a sure-of-herself though slightly vulnerable look. And, dare I say, it's slightly attractive.

My attention is drawn away from her just as a blush of my own creeps up my neck because our waitress, the woman with the pencil behind her ear, clears her throat to get my attention; my arms were folded over the table in front of me, obstructing the spot where she was apparently looking to place my meal. I smile sweetly in apology and remove my arms.

When I look up at Kerry, her eyes are set on me in thought.

The heat has risen from my neck to my cheeks and now my ears are very nearly burning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Please, reviews make writing that much more rewarding. Even if your anonymous or don't speak English or something)...just let me know what you think!**

Kerry Weaver is a funny lady.

Contrary to the popular belief and the stories that have been formed over her past seven years at County, she's actually really charming. She has a big laugh, one that I probably wouldn't have assumed she could manage to produce. And, what has to be the biggest surprise from the spitfire I'm dining with, Kerry Weaver has a library full of dirty, dirty jokes.

I've nearly spewed rum and coke all over the pair of us on two occasions.

When our laughing has subsided for a few moments and our plates have been cleared, our conversation and joking takes a more serious turn.

She's staring at me intently, a naturally occurring smile gracing her pink lips.

I'm staring straight back, nearly tantalized with every feature of her face; her cheekbones, her eyes, the faint freckles on her cheeks that you can't see unless you really look, and the old scar at her trachea.

I wonder what that's from.

"What happened with you and Sandy?" I ask, my eyes meeting hers.

She opens her mouth to respond, closes it for a few moments, then opens it again. Words come out this time. "We couldn't seem to agree over her…her not-so-little public display of affection."

I can tell she's chosen her words carefully.

"That was a little radical of her…I mean, she kind of…well, she outed you, didn't she?" I choose my words just as carefully.

She nods, sweeping a piece of hair behind her right ear subconsciously. "She was pissed when she found out I wasn't out at work…" She takes a long sip of her drink, "and she took matters into her own hands. I didn't like  
that."

I try not to laugh; of course you didn't like that, Kerry, you like being in control.

"So that was it?"

She nods once, taking another long sip of her drink until the glass, still only her first of the night, is empty. "That was it."

I push my uncooperative hair out of my face. "Was she your first?"

She looks a little taken aback at first but shakes her head in response.

"Second?"

She nods, sparking a huge fire of pure curiosity inside of me; that meant she'd been sneaking around, keeping the secret for a longer time than I'd thought. Than any of us had thought, for that matter. Except maybe Luka;  
he, for some strange, mysterious reason, wasn't the least surprised when Lopez attacked Weaver's mouth with her own in the middle of the ER. That bastard, I'm just realizing, knew something the whole time. I make a mental note to, along with picking up my mail, ask him why the hell he didn't tell me anything.

"Who was it?"

She looks at me strangely. "Who was who?"

I roll my eyes impatiently. "Your first, Kerry; stick with me here."

She nods. "Right, sorry…" she ducks her head, shying away. "Uh…well…"

"Kerry…"

"Kim Legaspi."

My jaw very nearly hits the table in front of me. She, Kerry Weaver, banged Kim Legaspi, Dr. Ten Thousand Yards of Legs and Amazing Body to Match.

"As in…"

She rolls her eyes now. "As in attending psychiatrist who was accused of sexual harassment last year and ran off to California." She says in annoyance; the calmness that was before has fled.

I feel a little guilty for eliciting this reaction, but I want to know all about this little relationship that ended up bringing out a whole other side of Kerry Weaver. However, I know better than to push the limits further than I  
already have and therefore, I retreat.

I lean back in my barstool-like seat and take another long sip of my rum and coke.

I wait for her to go on, or ask me another question, or to at least find a way to change the subject. But when she speaks, it's of Kim.

She tells me everything and, after another vodka tonic on her part and a rum and coke on mine, she has the smallest track of tears trailing down either cheek. The tears she shed weren't of sadness, though. From what I  
could tell, she was angry. She was pissed. At both herself and Kim. Herself for not being there when Kim needed her, and at Kim for not realizing that she was needed.

I know, in a sense, exactly what she's talking about.

I just nod and 'mhm' when expected, though I really am listening. Intently, actually. This woman is like a damned onion: all these layers coming off and coming off and coming off. I wonder how long it'd take to get to her core. I wonder if anyone ever has.

The tears are gone, now, and the waitress is back with us. She's got the little black book that has our receipt in her hand and before I have a chance to grab for it, Kerry's snatched it away.

I shoot her a look, my hand still in a receiving position. She smirks at me, takes her hand, and folds my palm closed.

When her fingers brush across mine I feel fire.

Hot, hot fire.

And when she lingers for an extra moment, I realize I don't want her to let go.

"I've got this, Abby." She says, smiling and sending another shock of heat and electricity and energy through me.

She pulls her hand away, digs into her bag, pulls out a debit card of some sort, and puts it into the black book, handing it back to the waitress and thanking her with a small smile.

"Thanks." I say, feeling slightly smaller than I did at the beginning of the night.

She smiles. "My pleasure."

We amble back to the car and, when she suddenly lurches forward my hand steadies her. I think for a second it's because she's drunk, then I hit the same patch of ice and fall flat on my ass.

Her laughter is music to my ears and she hauls me up off the ground.

It's dropped nearly fifteen degrees, making it a cruel ten or so, and the wind is whipping. Her car holds little relief from the cold, but I'm thankful for the shelter from the wind.

Finally her car starts- after three or so tries I was beginning to think we might be calling a tow truck- and we head back in the direction of my apartment.

When she stops in front of my building, the last thing I want to do is get out and leave her. I don't know what it that I actually want to do, but I don't want to leave her.

And I don't know why.

I reluctantly unbuckle my seat belt and slowly turn towards her in my seat. She's staring at me and, like earlier in the lounge, the moonlight is dancing across her face.

She looks gorgeous.

"I, I…." stop stuttering, Lockhart. I swallow hard and push what I was going to say out of my mind. "I had a really, really good time."

She smiles sweetly.

"Me too, Abby…we should do it, do this, again sometime…"

I can't stop smiling. I nod.

"Good night, Kerry."


	4. Chapter 4

All I could think about as I fell asleep was Kerry Weaver.

The next day at work: Kerry Weaver.

The days after that: Kerry Weaver.

And finally, eight entire days later, when our shifts finally coincide, I no longer have to picture her. I get to watch as she runs a trauma, as she carefully sutures a fidgety child's scalp lac, as she deals with a band groupie's overdose.

At the end of the twelve hours we've worked, we unintentionally meet in the lounge.

"I haven't seen you in a while." I say quietly, sliding into my jacket.

She looks up. "I was on nights then took a couple days off…" she replies.

I frown. "You took time off?" That is not like Kerry Weaver.

She shoots me a testing glance, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. "You know, Abby, I am, much like everyone else, human." She tells me, shutting her locker door with force. I think she's angry until I see her wearing the type of smile that's an attempt at keeping a straight face.

I smile, too.

"I worked the graveyard 'till Wednesday, wasn't feeling well Thursday and Friday," She explains and I nod in understanding, "and now I'm off until Tuesday." She throws her bag over her shoulder and gets a steady grip on her crutch.

Again, I smile. "A whole two days?" I joke shutting my locker door and following her out of the lounge. "How ever did you get so lucky?"

She smirks and pushes the door open with her back, turning in a half circle to walk through. "I'm the boss, Abby."

My eyes roll. "And don't I forget it!" I mock-scold myself, walking out the bay doors. It's early but dark; six o'clock and I can hardly see anything that isn't illuminated by the moon. I sigh. "It was this dark when I came in this morning."

She laughs shortly. "That's why I like nights."

I raise a conspicuous eyebrow. "But you sleep during the day when you're on nights."

She scoffs and laughs loudly. "Oh Abby," she says, "I don't sleep."

If that hadn't been such an outrageous claim, I would think she was being one hundred and ten percent sincere. She sure does have a knack for sarcasm.

"Ha, ha, ha." I manage, though I really did find it amusing.

We're at the base of the El platform now, and we stop knowing that we're about to go separate ways.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later…" I say, turning towards the stairs.

She nods, letting me proceed, but speaks up. "Uh, Abby, wait…" I turn from where I am, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want to have dinner? With me? At my house? Tonight?"

I stare at her for a long moment, weighing my options.

Who am I kidding; I nod quickly, smiling.

She smiles back and motions me towards her with her hand.

I grin and follow, lengthening my stride for a few steps until we're walking in unison.

Her car is more organized this time; no Melissa Etheridge on the seat and I don't have to worry about smashing the hard plastic casing of any Eurhythmics' or Grace Jones' CD's when I finally step in.

She throws the car into drive and we head towards the side of town opposite of mine.

Kerry Weaver may drive a Honda, but let no one say she has middle class taste in housing. Her apartment, which is positioned in a newly built building just on the inside of the border of Lincoln Park, is immaculate. The  
walls are a pristine shade of white, but the splashes of color all around bring the home to life.

I follow her lead and discard my jacket and bag on the coat tree by the door and I step out of my shoes, pushing them so they're sitting next to hers under our jackets. She leads the way deeper into the apartment, flicking  
on a few light switches as she goes. My eyes widen considerably when I see her kitchen.

Stainless steel in the form of a refrigerator, oven, toaster, and dishwasher assault my eyes. She has good taste in appliances too, apparently.

She leads me to the kitchen island and I proceed to lean my back against the counter, my arms folded in front of me. She heads for the fridge, places her hand on the handle, and looks straight at me. "Would you mind if  
we just ordered out?"

I notice how tired she looks and remember that she was home, sick, just yesterday. Suddenly I feel as if I shouldn't be there. I stand up straight quickly. "I'm sorry, Kerry…I didn't realize, or…I didn't think about that you  
might still not be…" I run a hand through my hair. "I should go…let you sleep."

She's staring at me with a hurt look in her eyes.

We are so not on the same page.

"Abby…" she's all confused until, finally, realization of my concern registers in her brain. She grins slightly. "No, no, Abby…." She shakes her head. "I'm not trying to get rid of you, I just haven't gotten groceries in a really, really long time…" her tone is apologetic. "I'd make dinner, but I don't think I have anything worth cooking."

I laugh and am back at ease. "I thought you were still feeling sick…" I explain.

She shakes her head and goes to the other side of the kitchen, reaching out and pulling a handful of take-out menus from a basket on the counter against the wall. She places them in front of me, swiftly spreading them out in a card dealer-like fashion. "I wasn't physically ill, sick." She starts as she turns back towards the hall.

"No?" I question though she's disappeared for a moment.

What does that leave? Mentally sick? I smirk. Kerry Weaver: mentally ill. Nope.

She comes back, phone in hand, and leans against the counter next to me. "Nope."

I don't know if she wants me to push. I mean, if she wanted me to know, she'd tell me, right? But maybe she just doesn't care if I know or not…I mean, Kerry isn't one to reach out for sympathy, so there's no way her vague responses are her trying to get me to ask.

Whatever. I might as well ask. "Then why did you take two sick days?"

Both sets of eyes- mine and hers- are trained on the menus in front of us, sorting through them visually. "I had a migraine." She answers, flipping the Italian one over and pushing it away; no spaghetti tonight, apparently.

Kerry Weaver gets migraines? What?

"I didn't know you get migraines…" I admit.

She turns her head towards me, looks for a second, before turning away. "There's a lot you don't know about me." She replies neutrally. "Alright: Chinese or Pizza?"

I tilt my head left and right. "Who delivers fastest?"

"Pizza."

I nod, "Then pizza sounds good to me."

She smiles. "Cheese?"

I nod again and she picks up the phone to place the call. I didn't pay attention to address before, but apparently she lives at 456 West Clark Street, apartment number two eighteen. Good to know, I guess.

The delivery guy says he'll be there in twenty five minutes and we reside to the living room, a beer in each of our hands. She sets hers down and flicks the switch on the wall to my left. I sit on the far end of the couch and  
tuck my left leg underneath me. When the fire lights, she joins me and sits on the other end of the couch, laying her crutch down on the ground to the side of it and turning ten or so degrees so she's facing me.

We sit in silence, as we tend to do so well, for a few moments.

This time, however, I speak first. "What else?"

She looks at me like I have two heads. "What else what?"

"What else don't I know about you?" I ask, tucking my other leg underneath me so I'm sitting Indian style, facing her completely.

Her green eyes narrow slightly like she's considering the question, trying to decode it and make sense of it even though it's a relatively simple request.

She thinks about it a little more. "I was married." She offers.

I raise a conspicuous eyebrow. "Were you really?"

She nods.

I nod. "Me too."

We're back to silence.

"Tell me something else." She says.

I shake my head. "I just did."

Her fine eyebrows arch then furrow. "I already knew that you were married."

I roll my eyes. "Fine…um…I was named after Pauline Phillips." I offer, shrugging.

Her head slowly falls to the side and her eyes narrow as she considers what I'm saying. A flame is lit and she nods, "Abigail Van Buren…" She states the penname of the famous advice columnist of the 50's and 60's.

"Dear Abby." I finish for her.

She smiles and pulls her right leg up and perches her elbow on it. She rubs the bridge of her nose and yawns before pulling her left leg up as well. Now she's facing me completely, only the middle cushion of the couch separating us.

She looks tiny, I notice. Nothing at all like her personality.

She looks adorable.

My eyes focus on hers, but she's looking the other way. The blue in them is shining through and I'm thinking it's because she has a blue shirt on. Is that how that works? I'm still watching her when I realize she's now staring back. I quickly tear my gaze away but my moment of daze wasn't lost on her; now she's studying me intently.

"You were staring." She states neutrally, her voice soft and warm.

I smirk and glance at her through the strands of hair that have fallen into my line of vision. I'm not going to apologize because I'm not sorry. I want to stare at her, want to let my eyes linger on her and soak up every inch of her body. I'm not sorry.

So instead I nod slowly.

"Why?" She challenges though I think she knows why.

I give her a wry smile, shaking my head at the corner I've backed myself into.

She narrows her eyes but there's still a trace of smile on her lips. "Abigail…" she says, her tone sing-song-y.

I tilt my head back and run a nervous, shaking hand through my hair.

I'm about to answer when, like a gift from some god or goddess above, the doorbell rings.

The phrase "saved by the bell" has never held so much truth.

Kerry is quick to release her legs, grab her crutch, and head for the door. I get up, too, and grab my bag, but she shakes her head. "My house, my treat."

I give her a rueful glare. "Thanks."

She waves me off and pulls the front door open.

A few moments later we're seated back in our original spots on the couch and we each of a plate of pizza in our laps. It's silent but the very faint, not-yet-annoying sound of chewing.

After she swallows her most recent bite, she takes a swig of the beer she grabbed and looks straight at me.

Good god, her eyes are burning right through me. Not in the wrath-of-Weaver way. Burning right through me in a good way. A very good way.

My heart rate is rapidly quickening in pace.

It's exploding.

I'm exploding.

"You're…." I speak, my voice failing me and trailing off. I dip my head down and hold it in my hands.

"What, Abby?" Her voice is soft and sultry and seductive and, for the first time, I think the tone is intentional.

That's reassuring in a completely and utterly terrifying way; at least she has a smidge of similar feelings. Right?

I take a deep breath. A deep, shaky breath.

I'm going to do this.

I'm going to, damnit.

"You're so gorgeous."

She says it before I have a chance and we somehow clamber across the couch until she's in the middle and I'm very nearly in her lap, one leg on either side of her.

When our mouths crash together, it's fire.

Hot, hot fire.  


* * *

I pulled the migraine thing out of thin air. Adds mysteriousness to Weaver, hey? To continue or not to continue, that is the question...any input is very much appreciated. Thanks for reading and hopefully reviewing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Reviews are very much appreciated. Just sayin'. **

When I slowly gain awareness, the first thing I notice is the softness of the sheets I'm between. Nothing like my two hundred something thread count ones that only get changed on special occasions. No. These are soft. Very, very soft.

The second thing that catches my attention is the slight weight that's against my right side. It's slight, but there, and not even close to being uncomfortable; not crushing, but noticeable.

Then my nerves pick up on the feel of the soft skin that is that weight. With that realization, my sleep clouded brain sends shock through my system as it registers whose skin and weight that is and whose bed is made with what has to be six hundred thread count sheets.

Fuck.

I try not to stiffen or move or breathe forsake of holding off what's bound to be an awkward morning after.

But good god, as I come to complete awareness, memories of the previous night begin bombarding my mind and senses. Her voice, her breathe, her warmth and sweat. Her hair and eyes, and her hands and her mouth.

Her.

Just her.

I must've moved or breathed because the once slumbering form next to me has stirred.

Shit.

I hold my breath and know my muscles are going rigid.

She shifts, her left leg sliding further up my right until her thigh is firmly in between mine. I wonder if, if she was one hundred percent awake, she would be letting any part of her body near my lower  
half again.

Probably not, but who am I to fight with a sleeping woman?

It's early, according to the lack of light I saw from the window when I first awoke, and so I relax, allowing myself to finally breathe, and shut my eyes.

My counterpart's deep, regular breathing sends me back into a trance and soon, I'm asleep.

My second awakening is cold induced; one of my legs is sticking out from under the covers, and the rest of my naked body is covered by a sheet. A soft sheet, yes, but still only a sheet. And the body  
that was once next to me is gone.

I groan inwardly and roll over, slowly opening my eyes until they adjust to the light. I check the clock that I remember is sitting on the bedside table.

It's six thirty and a few streaks of sunlight are just starting to stream in through the almost-sheer curtain.

I hear the flushing of a toilet down the hall and look towards the bedroom door; it's been left ajar. I let my arm feel the empty half of the bed; it's still warm.

Shit.

I quickly roll back over in the fetal position and shut my eyes.

I'm asleep, I'm asleep, I'm asleep.

I open my eye just a crack and almost let out a sigh of relief when I see that her back is to me as she shuts the door quietly.

I study her body.

She's put on an oversized tee shirt. It's gray and goes down to mid thigh, revealing gorgeous, naturally muscular legs.

I was surprised when I found the toned muscle, actually.

I'd always guessed that her disability was muscular- post polio, maybe a sort of dystrophy-, but when she stopped me from pushing her left leg excessively to the side, I realized it was in the joint.

I was happy to also learn that it hardly altered or hampered her, uh, well, sex life.

She's still standing at the door and I realize, again, that I'm supposed to be asleep. As she turns I quickly squeeze my eyes shut again.

I'm asleep, I'm asleep, I'm asleep.

I hear dresser drawers opening and closing and hear a quiet rustle of clothing. The door opens and shuts once more and when I open my eyes, I'm alone.

When I no longer hear the muffled sound of feet on hardwood floor I sit up in Kerry's bed and survey my surroundings. Kerry's room is opposite of what I'd imagine it to be. Much like her kitchen, the  
bedroom is luxurious and warm. The furniture is all dark oak, and the four poster bed is covered with a deep orange and red duvet cover.

A pair of sweatpants is folded at the ended of the bed with a tee shirt on top.

I slip them on and quietly make my way out of the bedroom.

I stop first in bathroom then amble downstairs quietly. I notice that the box of pizza from the night before has been cleaned up along with our beer bottles.

The clothes we had shed downstairs are folded neatly on the back of the couch; my tee shirt and scrub pants form one pile while her blouse and sweater form another.

Everything else is still strewn across her bedroom.

I walk silently into the kitchen, the floor cold against my feet.

She's at the counter, leaning against it with her eyes trained out the window. One hand is planted on the granite surface while the other holds what my nose tells me is a cup of coffee.

I swallow hard. "Morning."

I wince as she flinches. I'm afraid the reaction wasn't just because I'd startled her, but I'm pleasantly surprised when she turns around and leans her back against the counter, a smile etched softly  
across her face.

"Good morning…" she says quietly.

As if on cue, I yawn, eliciting a larger smile from Kerry.

She turns back to the counter and pulls a coffee mug from the cupboard above.

The coffee, though black, is heaven as it slides down my throat and my sense are kicked up a notch.

"Did you, uh, sleep alright?" she asks.

We're both still just standing there; Kerry's leaning against the counter with her back and I'm doing the same against the island.

I nod. I won't lie. I just won't tell her that I nearly had a panic attack the first time I awoke. "You?"

She nods and I wonder if she's lying, too. Or, fibbing, rather.

We're silent for a few more minutes, the tension growing thicker until it could be cut with a knife.

When she speaks, my attention is pulled away from the pattern of floor tiling my eyes were following.

What she says makes me smile, then blush, then smile again.

"I would never have suspected you to, uh, well…" she swallows. "be into that..." she shakes her head at the choice of words, "or, uh, this."

"There's a lot you don't know about me." I say, mimicking the exact phrase she'd used on me the previous evening.

The reiteration isn't lost on her and she smiles from behind her mug.

I take it a step further. "And I didn't disappoint?"

Green eyes narrow and eyebrows furrow, but no vocalized response comes.

"I'll take that as a no…" I murmur, silently pleased with myself.

Her coffee cup is now empty, apparently, and she puts it into the sink. Turning back to me, she crosses her arms across her chest.

"Are you working today?" She asks.

I shake my head. I know that she isn't, either.

An unreadable looks crosses her face and I can only stare, waiting for her to continue.

I don't know if she's pleased or upset by the fact that neither of us has anything to run off to.

When she speaks again, I'm happy to learn it's the former of the two.

"Breakfast?"

I smile broadly and nod, deriving a small smile from her as well and she turns to the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and a package of bacon.

My eyes are so held captive by her fluid movements and near perfect body that, when she's suddenly facing me, I have no idea that words are coming out of her mouth.

"Sorry?" I ask her to repeat sheepishly.

She smiles slyly, shakes her head, and turns back to the fridge, speaking to me over her shoulder.

"I asked you if you wanted scrambled or over easy…"

I grin.

The question is so innocent, so lighthearted.

"Whatever you want, Kerry."

She turns back towards me for a moment.

"I'll keep that in mind." She warns.

I hope she does.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to my dedicated readers and reviewers...I would name you, but I'm more than sure you know who you are.**

We're back on the couch, where the previous night's festivities began to ensue, but this time we're content with only talking.

After breakfast, which was the best damned breakfast I'd ever had, Kerry had told me she was going to shower. I nodded in agreement, letting her go, but when I caught sight of a suggestively raised eyebrow, I gave her seven or so minutes until I bounded up the stairs, meeting her in the bathroom.

We didn't get out until the water was running cold.

I commented on her having a small water heater, but she assured me it was actually of fair size and that I'd just lost track of time.

She was probably right: I could have easily lost time while she was doing, well, what she was doing.

I borrowed yet another set of clothes from Kerry, this outfit being made up of black Adidas track pants, the kind with three stripes down either leg, and a gray Northwestern tee shirt, and we went back downstairs.

It's eleven thirty, now, and the sun is rebounding off the banks of fresh snow, shining in on us through the windows.

"What's that from?" I ask, broaching the subject of the scar at her trachea.

She looks at me quizzically for a second, probably wondering what I'm talking about, but when I point to the general vicinity of her neck her own hand subconsciously travels there and she raises an  
eyebrow, confirming my question.

I nod.

She laughs. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

I shoot her an incredulous look.

She rolls her eyes and answers. "Well, you know jacks? The game?"

I narrow my eyes and nod.

"When I was a kid, probably four or five, I was living in Africa. I don't know if it was because we were in Kenya or because it was the sixties-" I chuckle at the comment, "but we played with small animal  
bones that were about this big," she tells me, holding her thumb and forefinger about an eighth of an inch apart, "anyway, long story short, I swallowed one and it got stuck in my airway…for about two  
years."

"They didn't get it out the first time?" I ask, amazed that she'd had the same fragment logged in there for so long.

"We were in Africa and it was the sixties." She reiterates, her tone the same one she uses when she talks with that one kid who always comes in after cutting his hand.

I, however, do not have Down's.

I shrug. "Well okay then." I mutter. "Interesting story, though."

She laughs ruefully and pushes a chunk of red hair behind her ear.

We sit in companionable silence for a while longer before she speaks again.

Her question hits me like a sack of bricks.

"Was this," her left hand motions from herself to me and back, "a bad idea?"

I stare at her, my stomach dropping.

Her expression, as her tone, is unreadable.

I look down at my hands that are clasped in my lap and then back into green eyes.

I shake my head. "I…uh…no," I stutter, "I don't think so…"

"What about Luka?" She asks.

I wonder if, mentally, she added 'and John.'

I shrug. "That's a one-sided relationship." I admit.

That's the truth, too; I love Luka, I do, but it's not an in-love kind of love. He's a great man, full of passion and empathy and love, but he's not a right fit for me. With him, it's convenient; he's there if I'm lonely, there on the rare occasion I need to talk, and he, for the most part, does a good job of understanding me. I feel bad, of course, for leading him on as I've been, but there's no easy way to cut a man like him off. I don't want to hurt him, and I don't want lose what friendship we do have.

"Does he know that?" She asks gently.

I think for a second before replying honestly. "I think he knows something's missing between us, but I don't think he wants to be the one to acknowledge it."

She smiles a sad looking smile.

It's out of sympathy, no doubt.

I turn her question around on her. "Do you think this was a bad idea?"

I put emphasis on 'you'.

She doesn't answer me right away and the silence is starting to get uncomfortable.

Really uncomfortable.

Just as it's about to get unbearable, she shakes her head slightly.

"I think it's new...and I think I'm your boss…" she says slowly, "but I don't think it was necessarily a bad idea."

That's good, I think to myself, because if it was a bad idea you should have stopped after the first round last night rather than taking me, again, in the shower.

I shake the explicit thought away and cross my legs under me.

"Now what?" I ask, now sitting a little bit straighter and higher than I was previously.

She smiles slightly, pulling her own right leg underneath her. "Now…now, we talk." She says. "I want to know who Ms. Abigail Lockhart is."

I give her the most cynical of looks.

"From the beginning." She orders.

And so, because I dare not ignore orders from Kerry Weaver, I tell her who I am. It starts out vaguely: I was born in nineteen sixty eight in the great Midwest, my father was in and out, back and forth  
for years until he stuck around just long enough to see my brother off to first grade, which was when he split for good. I tell her that I've never known my mother as anything but bi-polar, and that  
since her not-so-little episode last year, we've hardly talked. I tell her that I went to the University of Minnesota where I majored in biology, then got my nursing degree two years later, then to U of I for medical school, where I proceeded to drop out, as she obviously already knows.

I tell her about Richard, and how he was the biggest mistake of my life yet, had I not made it, I wouldn't be who I am.

I tell her about Luka, and how, at first, I thought I was in love with him.

Then I tell her about Carter, and how the poor guy needs to figure out what he does and doesn't want, because no girl with half a brain is going to keep up with the games he's so into playing.

And then I tell her about her. And how, a little more than a week ago, I saw her and froze in paralysis. How, when her hand brushed across mine, it was like a ravaging fire had been lit. And how, when I didn't see her for a week, I was beginning to get sorely disappointed.

Lonely.

Maybe even scared.

Basically, I told her that this whole thing wasn't going to be a one-time thing. At least, not if she didn't want it to be.

And now Kerry Weaver is staring at me, almost wide-eyed, with the remnants of a blush in blotches all over her neck and jaw.

"I…" I know she's addressing my last topic of conversation. Or trying to, at least.

"Do you want this to be it, Kerry?" I ask, feeling larger, stronger than her.

She stares at me for a long time and I begin to feel as if I'm shrinking.

Please, don't want this to be it.

Please.

As if she can hear the little voice inside my head that was pleading and begging, she shakes her head weakly.

"No."

It comes out softly and I watch her, making sure she's sure.

She knows that, somehow, and shakes her head and speaks with newfound strength.

"No." She repeats.

I smile gently.

At least we're getting somewhere.


	7. Chapter 7

**_God, it's been a while. At least by my standards. Anywho, this one's short...but I have a rough idea of what's next, so maybe, just maybe, something will be produced. I wouldn't hold my breath, though. Sorry about the delays and lack of updates; sports, school, and a concussion have gotten the best of me. Thanks for reading and reviewing (because, you know, it's the polite thing to do..)_**

* * *

The rest of our day was spent discussing Kerry, which I thought she'd never agree to do, but it wasn't like she didn't put up a fight; I very nearly had to finagle every bit of information I received out of her.

What I did learn, however, was beyond interesting.

Sure, she tip-toed around the fact that she was adopted, but she held back not one bit when she told me about Africa.

She told me about how her parents, Henry and Lillian, had been an engineer and a school teacher respectively and that, until she was twelve, the three had lived in Kenya. That's when, apparently, they'd moved back to Indiana, where her parents were from. She told me she loved school but hated the people, and I had a pretty good idea why. She said that her undergrad was University of Notre Dame and that her minor had been in English.

By the number of books in her house, that came as no surprise.

She then went on to tell me that she went to Northwestern for medical school and did her residency at Mt. Sinai. She explained that her parents, both of them within six months of each other, had passed away during her internship and that, during her second year, she'd gone back to Kenya to work with Doctors Without Borders.

That didn't surprise me much, either.

She told me that she'd married a man, Michael, when she came back from Africa. They had met on the trip; he had been a surgical resident from Oregon and had persuaded her to take a year off from her own residency to make an attempt at a relationship with him.

That had shocked me.

She sounded disgusted with herself when she explained how she'd put her life on hold for him, but sounded proud of herself, a bit dignified, when she told me that she had, after a year, come to her senses and moved back to Illinois to finish her residency.

Apparently, they haven't talked since.

Again, as she had that night a week ago, she told me about Kim. She seemed to remember telling me, though, because she skipped over the details she'd already shared, settling to tell me that she would be content if she never saw the blonde psychiatrist again.

And now, as we sit on the same ends of the couch we've occupied all morning, she's telling me about Lt. Sandy Lopez. Her tone is remorseful, and I can tell she's harboring some regrets, but I also can tell she's satisfied with her split from the Latina.

"I loved being with her, but we didn't see eye to eye." She explains, staring at her hands then me. "You know those Blackhawk tickets Susan and Malik got off that one patient?"

I think back a month or so, trying to recall the incident she's talking about.

It comes and I nod.

"Sandy brought me to that game. We were leaving, walking through the crowd, and I heard her, Susan's, laugh. I froze completely…I was so afraid they'd see me out with Sandy…I mean, it would be obvious, you know? Malik's known Sandy's gay for a long time, and it's not like she and I would just be friends because we have oh so much in common." She says sardonically.

"After that, she left. We didn't talk for a few weeks…then I called her, asking to talk. I ended up leaving a message, then turning right around and leaving another, telling her not to come. She must've missed that one, because next I knew she was attacking my face in the lobby."

Her tone is so dry and matter of fact that it's a good thing I'm not still drinking coffee because, if I was, there's a very good chance it'd be spewed all over the couch.

My laughing finally subsides and she's still wearing an amused, smug smile on her face. She steals a glance at the clock on the wall and shakes her head slightly and pushes fallen hairs behind her ears.

"I've kept you here all day…" she apologizes.

What? I glance at the clock.

It's lunchtime.

I really have been here all day. And all night, for that matter.

"Oh, wow…." I look back at her and can't help but smile a little bit. "I'm not complaining, but I am getting a little hungry…"

I raise a suggestive eyebrow and she chuckles, rolling her eyes but pushing herself up off of the couch anyway.

I follow her and, when we're just at the entrance of her kitchen, the worst noise a doctor could hear on their day off sounds and her eyes instantly find the pager that rests on the counter top. Grudgingly and awkwardly, she walks towards it and snatches it, silencing it as she reads the message. She curses under her breath and glances up at me briefly, a look of annoyance and apology in her eyes.

I wave her off and she picks up the phone, dialing the familiar numbers before tucking it between her shoulder and ear.

"Frank? It's Dr. Weaver…" she nods, rolls her eyes, and speaks again. "Okay, why don't you just put Susan on the phone…"

It's an order, not a question.

I secrete a small smile.

"Hi, Susan….no, no, no…he what?" green eyes narrow and her expressions spark my curiosity. She gives a long sigh and rubs the bridge of her nose, eyes shut. "Okay, okay…fine. Yep. I'll see you in a half hour."

She presses the end button, places the phone back on the hook and looks at me.

"I'm sorry." She says.

I shake my head dismissively. "It's alright…" I reply. "Why are you going in?"

She's walking towards the stairs and I'm a few feet behind, trailing her in her path. "She's down two attendings and up thirty patients…" she explains, taking the steps quickly.

I cringe. "Damn."

At the top of the stairs, now, she turns towards me and I see her expression.

It sends a burst of warmth through my system.

"Tonight?"

I ask a little timidly; she nods.

I smile.

Shooing her with my hands, I speak again. "Go, go…wouldn't want the Chief to be late."

I'm teasing her and she rolls her eyes, turning around and going towards her bedroom.

I wait a few moments once she's out of sight before taking the steps two at a time after her.

"Kerry?" I ask, a little more out of breath than I should be.

She's startled and turns around from where she is at her closet.

An eyebrow arches and, just as quickly as it rose, falls back to normal.

"I'll only be gone a few hours…you can stay here?" she offers, somehow knowing what I was going to question.

I smile gratefully.


	8. Chapter 8

**R&R, Please and Thank You.**

After four hours of sitting around Kerry's house, aimless searching through her shelves and shelves of books and even a couple episodes of The Cosby Show, Kerry's finally home to save me from my isolation-induced boredom.

My heart starts to race with glee and I can't wipe the smile off my face when I see the doorknob turn.

All those feelings diminish, however, when she appears

She looks more drained than she normally does after a full shift, leaning on her crutch almost completely, and her eyes are dull and tired.

"Kerry?" I question her as I scramble off the couch.

She looks up at me wearily as she pulls off her coat and steps out of her shoes, but offers no words.

This isn't good.

"Are you alright…?"

She cocks her head to the side as if considering her answer thoroughly, but then her chin drops and she leans back against the wall, eyes trained on the floor.

This is definitely not good.

Her right hand comes up to cover her eyes and I can see her shake like a delicate leaf. She's crying and I start to move towards her, a hand reaching out for her, but when I make contact with her she jumps and jerks away.

Her face, painted with two tracks of tears, wears a stern look and she holds her hand out warningly. "Don't, Abby…" she demands.

My chest is tight and I'm not sure what to do.

I oblige, giving her space, but speak softly. "Kerry...did…what's wrong?"

And she explodes.

"This! Abby, _this_" she gesticulates in the space between she and I, "is wrong. I don't know what I was think…what _we_ were thinking. Abby, it's not going work, we're not going to work…this, this thing between us…it's only going to hurt us in the end…"

My eyes are burning with tears that are dying to come out and I swallow the lump that's forming in my throat. I take the heat until she finishes, then stare right back at her.

"Why are you saying all of this, Kerry? Why now?"

Her face softens and she squeezes the bridge of her nose.

She's trying not to cry again.

"Abby…is it really worth it?" she asks weakly.

I wonder if she feels small because, at the moment, I'm feeling quite a bit bigger than her.

"Is what worth it?"

She shakes her head and a small, cynical smile forms. She scoffs. "What are we doing, Abby?"

She's confusing the fuck out of me with all of this changing of subjects and I'm steadily getting more and more frustrated with her.

"Fuck, Kerry…we're arguing about something that only you seem to know about." I shoot back.

She shakes her head.

"No; what were we doing last night? This isn't real, _we _aren't real…what are we going to do when it's time to go back to work? When it's time to get back to real life?"

Her words are like daggers, each one stabbing deeper into my heart little by little.

And that, my friend, is no exaggeration.

With wild eyes and reddening skin, Kerry Weaver is telling me that what we have is really nothing at all. That, to her at least, this isn't real life. We're not real life. We're not real.

I back off step by step until I've put a fair three feet in between us.

With tunnel vision, I step past her with haste, pull the door open, and walk out.

Before I pull the oak door shut, I look back at her.

"I'll see you at work, Dr. Weaver." I say, my voice barely audible but as hard as stone.

Thankful that I have on my own clothes from yesterday as well as my sneakers on, I trek through the cold and snow and ice and dark in the direction of the apartment belonging to someone who I know I share something "real" with.

At least that's what Luka tends to think.

When I open my locker the morning after my run in with Dr. Weaver, I'm surprised to see my pager and ID sitting atop my neatly-folded winter jacket.

Bitch went into my locker.

I shake my head, snap both into their respective places, and stalk out of the lounge.

I cringe involuntarily when I see a shock of red hair at the admit desk. She's standing there, her back facing me, with her head resting in her left hand while her right hand scribbles away on what I'm assuming is a chart.

Why is she here? It's her day off, for Christ's sake. This isn't supposed to happen.

As if she knew her ability to gossip was needed, Haleh walks up next to me.

"Why is she here?" I ask, nodding towards Kerry while I try and keep the disdain out of my voice.

Haleh looks towards the subject of my question then returns to whatever chart she was focusing on before. Her eyes still down, she responds: "Greene called in ..." looking back up, shooting me a look and walking away, she adds with added volume. "Lucky us, huh?"

I watch as Kerry's hand stops moving and I know she's heard and I know that she knows that Haleh's comment was directed towards her.

I would care, but I can't. I just can't.

I head off into the depths of the ER, away from her

As I go, I can't help but wonder if she's watching me.

-

Twelve and a half hours after the start of a miserably long shift, I'm shaking out my folded jacket and flinch when my key ring hits the tiled ground.

My overreaction has caused me to miss the lounge door opening and I fly two feet into the air when the room's new occupant clears their throat.

"Holy Chri—" I swear under my breath before I see who it is.

"Oh, uh…sorry…"

I thought she'd left. I groan inwardly reply with intended softness. "It's fine."

She doesn't stop moving and heads to her locker, which sits three down from my own, and undoes the combination quickly. I watch her from the corner of my eye and take in the slump of her shoulders.

I haven't noticed she's stopped rummaging around inside until she turns her head and our eyes meet.

I can't help but think she's cute when she leans her head against the locker door.

"Kerry, listen-"

"Abby, I-"

Our words mangle and she smiles a small, small smile.

I smile, too. Unintentionally, of course.

"Go ahead…" I offer.

She sighs and picks her head up. "I'm sorry about last night…" she begins, "when you left I ran what I was trying to say to you over and over in my mind, and I realized that I really didn't get my point across correctly…"

I wince, thinking she's going to go apeshit on me again.

"When I came into work yesterday," she stops and draws in a deep breath, "when I come into work everyday, I know there are very, very few people who are actually pleased to see me."

My stomach drops and I start to say something of a comforting nature when she stops me.

"No, Abby…I'm not telling you that to get pity or make you feel bad; I'm telling you the truth, and you know it."

I nod grudgingly and she continues.

"Now, imagine if they saw is coming in holding hands? What would that make them think of you?" her voice is rising from what I guess to be anger. She shuts her locker with force. "I don't want whatever it is we have to ruin who you are."

Now she's staring at me and I'm staring back.

She has got to be the densest, most thickheaded person I know, and it's pissing me off to no end.

"And what the fuck makes you think you get to decide that? Huh?" I demand, my voice strong and and growing stronger. "Who cares if I get dirty looks for being with you? Do you really think you aren't  
worth that? That we aren't worth that?"

She only stares at me blankly, not giving an answer.

So goddamned dense.

"Jesus Christ, Kerry, do you really think that little of yourself?"

Her face falls and her head drops.

I take a step forward, much like I did last night, but this time I'm pleased to not be shooed away.

"Kerry…what you are to me isn't fake…I, I…" my hand is cupping her chin and I pull her to face me full-on.

I'm at a loss for words but she manages to finish my sentence, pressing her lips into mine softly, lingering for only a moment, before pulling away.

"Okay."

It's an agreement to something that I'm not sure of, a promise of the unknown. Regardless, I nod my head.

"Okay."


	9. Chapter 9

_I'm sincerely sorry about how long it's been. Please forgive me and I hope you enjoy. _

"Where is she?"

"Is Weaver not on? Oh happy days!"

My cheeks are burning with anger as I hear my co-workers, Haleh and Chuny particularly, complain about Kerry.

About my girlfriend.

In her defense, I chirp up with added bite in my voice, "She is on," I reassure, "and I'd appreciate you not bashing her."

I hear a few snickers.

Oh, fuck off, Chuny.

Kerry's the best attending on the floor, Mark Greene included, and everyone damn well knows it.

Grabbing the chart I'd previously been working on for Luka, I stalk off, moving past Susan and her suspicious face and head down the hall.

It's been weeks since Kerry and I had our falling out and making up and, in those twenty or so days, we've told not a single soul of our relationship and, as far as we know, not a single soul has any suspicions about it. Why would they, Kerry pointed out this morning while we were showering, it's not like we are acting all too differently.

In all actuality, we aren't acting any differently at all; sometimes we're on the same patient, sometimes we're not; sometimes I agree with her orders, and sometimes I don't.

It's all the same, really.

Except now, if I'm angry with her, things can get a little heated once we're home.

Her home, I mean. And not the kind of heated that leads to hot sex.

Unfortunately.

There are plenty of valid reasons to keep our relationship a secret and, unfortunately, those outweigh the fact that, by hiding, we're only giving society what they want.

That's what Kerry tells me, at least.

It's not that I don't agree, it's just that I have a hard time seeing what the big fucking deal is.

And that's when Kerry calls me naïve.

She knows what the big fucking deal is, she assures me, because of, and I quote, "what happened to Dr. Legaspi."

And that's when I shut up.

I'm just changing Luka's flu-ish woman's IV when the exam room door opens and I see a head of red hair out of the corner of my eye.

"Hey, Kerry…" I greet, smiling sweetly.

Or seductively.

Or both.

I can see her freeze a bit, taken aback by the show of friendship no doubt, but she shoots me a small smile. "Abby."

That's enough to put an inerasable smile on my face.

She walks over to the end of the empty bed nearby and grabs the chart that's hanging from the bed, gives it a quick look-over, then walks out with it in hand.

Just as I'm sure she's going to leave without a goodbye, she turns around, "Um…I'm going to take lunch in about twenty…" she offers.

I'm completely surprised by her openness and the feeling's making me want to jump across the room and tackle her open mouth with my own.

I refrain, deciding to nod instead. "Come find me?"

She smiles. "Always."

And, despite the patient who can so obviously hear us and see us interact, I watch as my girlfriend walks away and keep my eyes trained on her until she's far from sight.

Turning back to the woman, I give an awkward smile before finishing what I was doing.

As I remove the tape that's holding her IV in place, I can feel her staring at me. "You know, my gaydar is normally much more accurate."

Her words shock me and I stop all movements.

"Wh-what?"

Damnit, Abigail, no stuttering.

The middle aged woman, Margo her name is, only chuckles and shakes her head.

My ears are on fire and, while trying not to stutter, I speak again. "She and I…she's…we're just…"

Margo waves her hand and makes a tsking noise with her tongue. "No worries, Abby…"

I keep my head ducked as I finish with her IV and thank her, smiling slightly.

I tell her Luka will be in to go over her blood work soon and that, if everything's alright, she'll be cleared to go within the next couple of hours and exit her room, heading straight for the lounge.

Twenty minutes haven't passed and I grin sheepishly when I find Kerry sitting at the table, back to me.

It reminds me of the first night we went out.

Subsequently, my smile grows.

I choose not to scare the daylights out of her, gently clearing my throat before I speak. "Care to head home for lunch?" I question, my voice so thick with seduction that she'll know eating sandwiches is  
the last thing I'm suggesting we do.

To my surprise, she spins around quickly, giving me a full view of the mortified look on her face. At the same time, I hear the refrigerator door shut and instantly realize the source of Kerry's shock:  
Susan Lewis standing with a bottle of water in either hand.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Kerry quickly closes her nearly-dislocated jaw and tries to cover up. "Abby…if you could…uh…" she's stuttering and cluttering and I feel my ears burning. "If you could just excuse us," she settles on, "for  
a few moments…"

I nod shortly, spin on one foot, and go back to right where I came from.

Swallowing my mortification I get back to work, willing whatever radical- and probably truthful- thoughts that are going through Susan's head to stay there and only there.

Who am I kidding; it's Susan Lewis, and that smug little smile she can so venomously put on will have her spilling the beans as soon as Kerry and I are out of earshot.

Fuck.

As if on cue to save me from my own thoughts, as soon as I get to the admit desk the backdoors swing open and a gurney comes in. I'm called to action, Luka shouting my name as he leads the gurney  
towards one of the two open trauma rooms.

The patient's multiple gunshot wounds serve as a perfect distraction to the fact that my unintentional display of affection might just ruin what Kerry and I share, and by the time he starts to crash,  
everything's a blur. Not the kind of blur that happens when you're drunk, when everything's numb, but the kind of blur that causes you to notice, to feel, everything.

Unlike the former of the two, I don't particularly enjoy this type of blur.

As the monitors continue to beep frantically, an officer comes in and speaks loudly, attempting, like they all do, to drone out the noise of the machines and get what he needs.

When he nearly shouts that the witness, another teenage boy, claims that his "boyfriend was shot because he was his boyfriend," I feel myself freeze.

Handing the ambu bag to Chuny, I take a few steps backwards before exiting the trauma room.

I'm completely aware of my name being called as I go, and as I pass the admit desk and push through the double doors of the bay, out into the cold air.

Conversing about what happened Kim Legaspi is enough to keep me alert, but the fact that a repeat of the witch hunt could very well be unraveling at this very moment is enough to scare me fucking shitless.

I start towards the El.

Fuck.


	10. Chapter 10

I don't even know where the keys to my apartment are, I realized when I was deciding which El line to take, leaving me with two options:

1. Go back to the ER, or

2. Go to Kerry's.

I don't want to face Kerry at all, but by choosing the latter of the two I picked the lesser of two evils: I didn't have to deal with her right away; I was giving myself time to prepare.

Eight hours later, as I walk down the staircase from showering to see her sitting on the couch with a glass of wine hanging nonchalantly from her hand, I feel as if hours of preparation wouldn't be enough for me to clearly elaborate on what exactly it is that I'm afraid of.

I guess part of the problem is the fact that I don't even know what it is that I'm afraid of.

I clear my throat slightly and awkwardly amble towards her. "You're home early…" I state.

Obviously, Abby.

"Came home as soon as I could." She replies sharply, sipping her wine and not turning around.

My limbs feel heavy with guilt and fear and I have a hard time pushing myself to cover the remaining few feet between us.

"I'm sorry I left…"

She nods her head once, sips her wine, and responds in a few short words, "Why'd you leave?" she asks, before adding, "Why'd you leave me?"

That hits hard.

Damn hard.

God, damn, hard.

She turns when she says it, and I see faint tracks of tears running down her cheeks.

My eyes start to burn as I respond, "I…I'm…I…" I'm afraid to respond, afraid to tell her that I'm scared and worried. Afraid to tell her that I'm weak.

It seems like all she can do is stare at me and I know I have to answer.

Have to be strong and admit that I'm weak.

Deep breath...1, 2, 3, 4, 5…Exhale.

"I was…" my voice is shaky as tears start to blur my vision and I bring my hands up to wipe them away. "I was afraid…"

I crack, tears flowing freely.

She cracks, too, and stretches her arm toward me, pulling me to her.

I drop onto my knees in front of the couch and she wraps her arms around me, allowing me to put my head to her chest.

I know what she's thinking, what's upsetting her so drastically: she's reliving what she went through with Kim, except now- well, now the tables are turned: rather than turning her back in fear, she's having a back turned on her.

And the guilt that comes from the fact that my back is the one that's turned is what's breaking me.

Our bodies are both shaking as tears rack though them, but we hold onto each other, the emotion and the fear coursing through our bodies.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry, Kerry…I was so scared…I'm sorry…" I repeat the same few phrases over and over in through my sobs until they're coming out with a handful of deep, shaky breaths in between.

Releasing my head, she brushes my hair back from my face and pulls on my chin so I have no choice but to look her in the eye.

Her eyes are a bright blue and the whites surrounding them are glowing red.

"I'm sorry…" I repeat quietly, my voice raspy from crying.

She gives me a small, but genuine smile and shakes her head. "It's okay…" she begins, "I was just…I was scared and you weren't there…I was alone, but I don't think having you there would have changed anything…" she admits.

I lean back on my haunches. "What happened?"

She shrugs and wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Susan said she'd known and at that very moment, John walked in and asked what Susan knew. And Susan, apparently having some aversion to lying, started stuttering and looking at me…" she rambles but I manage to keep up, "and then I pulled her out of her misery and told him."

"You told him?" I ask, my eyes wide with shock.

"I told him." She sighs in exasperation, "And then I told them that they can tell whoever else they want, and then I walked out."

My jaw has dropped and I stare at her in awe.

"And…did they?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I'm assuming so: the atmosphere was like Sandy outed me all over again and, when I left, I could have sworn Luka winked at me."

I find myself smiling slightly at the latter part of her statement.

"So I guess that's it…" I say.

She nods. "We've gone public."

And going public is what we did. The following day at work, we walked in together, hand-in-hand until we got to the ambulance bay; there was a rig at the backdoor and Gallant was looking like he needed a hand.

I got no "you're going to hell" comments, though Frank seemed no cheerier than normal, and Kerry received no snide remarks from Romano about anything besides the ER being a cesspool.

It was scary, for a few weeks…but scary in a positive way. It was new, and it was exciting, and then it became natural. We didn't flaunt our relationship; we didn't make a big deal; Kerry and I were one, and those who knew it, knew it, and those who didn't, didn't.

It was easier that way.

At least until the thin line that separated work and play was erased; the barrier we had created, crumbled.

It was five or six months into our relationship…I was now permanently living with Kerry, and we were subsequently spending close to twenty-four hours a day together at least once a week.

It became hell.

Not only did I learn that there were some days she had to down an excess amount of ibuprofen to get through the day, but I also learned that she couldn't start the day without showering while blasting her music. Not only did I learn that she rarely watched TV, but I also learned that she thought lesser of those who did, and made her opinions known.

And I'm sure- hell, I know- there were more than a few habits of mine she disliked.

And so we separated…civilly, of course.

It was for the best, really, and I'm happy we did it.

There are some occasions when I'll look at her, and the memories and feelings and emotions will come flooding back, but then I think of Kerry, my friend, and Kerry, the doctor, and I know what we did was the right thing.

I still love Kerry- she's one of the best friends I've ever had, even to this day, and I'm not so sure that, had we not shared what we did, our relationship would be the same.

I'll always love Kerry.


End file.
